


Weeds and Buttercups

by courtinggtrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bickering, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Injury, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Magical!Jaskier, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Yennefer is a good friend, i haven't read the books nor played the games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:35:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22802662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtinggtrouble/pseuds/courtinggtrouble
Summary: Geralt is on the ground, exposed, vulnerable, surrounded by weeds and buttercups, the moon lights his silver hair and then his amber eyes as he looks up, up at the nightwraith, the nightwraith whose taloned hand is arcing, arcing over the Witcher, arcing until -“Geralt!”--In which Jaskier might have some magic
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 796





	Weeds and Buttercups

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't read the books or played the games so I have no idea how wrong the rules of magic/monsters are in this one sorry

_Geralt is on the ground, exposed, vulnerable, surrounded by weeds and buttercups, the moon lights his silver hair and then his amber eyes as he looks up, up at the nightwraith, the nightwraith whose taloned hand is arcing, arcing over the Witcher, arcing until -_

_“_ Geralt!” Jaskier flailed into the dark, mind still lost in the dark field in his dream, only to open his eyes to further darkness.

“I’m here, Jaskier, I’m here.” Came the gruff voice but Jaskier couldn’t find him, couldn’t find the body that the voice belonged to, he was reaching across the bed, reaching -

“ _Geralt.”_ He pleaded, almost sobbing. Finally, _finally_ , the familiar warm body of the Witcher slid into bed beside him, grabbing Jaskier’s wrist and placing his hand firmly against the man’s chest. Geralt’s other hand slid around the bard’s waist, pulling him close. Jaskier’s fingers trembled as he pressed his hand into the Witcher’s skin, focusing on the steady beating beneath his fingertips.

“I’m here, buttercup, I’m alive.” Geralt muttered against the bard’s hair, rubbing a calloused hand over his spine. Jaskier released a shaky breath that turned into a sob. The hand that wasn’t pressed against Geralt’s heart was roaming his skin, his scars, his back, his side, making sure that he was still there, still laying beside him, still warm, still _alive_.

“Where did you go?” The bard hadn’t meant for that to come out as blubbery as it did, but he didn’t care. Geralt pressed a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Heard a noise, went out to check on it. It was just the innkeeper’s dog.” He muttered against Jaskier’s skin. The Witcher was a lighter sleeper than Jaskier was, the noise was probably what had spurred the bard’s nightmare.

Geralt’s chest was now wet from Jaskier’s tears, the hand that was resting over the Witcher’s heart moved to spread the wetness across his chest, as if rubbing it in would protect him somehow. Jaskier pulled away slightly to look up at Geralt, whose golden eyes found his watery ones. The moonlight from the window illuminated his hair, his eyes. A fresh wave of tears spilled over the bard’s cheeks and he felt Geralt’s arm tighten around his waist.

“Don’t die.”

“I won’t.”

“ _Promise_ me, Geralt, _please_.”

The Witcher stayed suspiciously silent, face pulled tight.

“At least don’t die before me. I plan on dying long before you do, Witcher.” Jaskier said, attempting to bring back some humour into his voice. But he must have said the wrong thing because a flash of pain flickered across Geralt’s face before he was pulled into a desperate, messy kiss.

“Don’t speak of that, Jaskier.” Geralt said, almost pleading, nipping at the bard’s lower lip. Jaskier’s own heart clenched as he wrapped an arm around the Witcher’s neck, pulling him down for a chaste kiss, then another, then another.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier said, pulling back. He wasn’t about to change his plan, he would do anything to have Geralt outlive him. Perhaps he was selfish, Geralt had said once that he had lived long enough, but Jaskier couldn’t imagine how he would live on without the Witcher. It wouldn’t be truly living. Hopefully the two of them still had a long ways until then, after all, twenty years of knowing each other and the bard hadn’t aged much. He thanked the gods for his good genes. “Love you.” Jaskier said in his sing song voice that he often used when he got Geralt upset, his mood brightening in the hold of his Witcher.

“Mmm,” Geralt responded from somewhere deep within his chest. He was smiling as he pulled Jaskier in for another slow kiss. “Love you too.” The bard grinned broadly at the words, as he always did.

“Want to prove it, Witcher?”

Geralt gave an answering growl as he pushed Jaskier onto his back, coming to rest above him as he pressed their lips together, as he pushed his tongue into Jaskier’s mouth, as the bard whimpered at the feeling of the Witcher’s hand wandering lower, lower…

—

“Yennefer!” The bard exclaimed with a grin a few days later as he spotted the sorceress browsing a fruit cart. “What bad luck that we run into you.”

“Yes, well, I’d heard there was an irritating pest that needed getting rid of and here you are!” She responded, a smile of her own on her face as she gave Jaskier one of her rare hugs. Geralt shook his head behind them, never fully having understood their relationship. Yennefer looked over to him as she stepped back from the bard. “Geralt,” she greeted, “you smell, as usual.”

“He refuses to use my soap, only his _scentless_ one.” Jaskier said, looking vaguely offended. Yennefer smirked lightly, she wouldn’t mention that the Witcher _did_ smell like Jaskier, only he smelt like Jaskier and whatever the two of them had done in bed that morning.

“Why _are_ you here?” Geralt asked.

“Passing through.” The sorceress replied. It wasn’t really an answer, cryptic as always.

“We should get a drink. We haven’t seen you since-“ Jaskier began

“The Bełt.” She finished off.

“Yeah, that was disappointing.”

“Still, lots of money.”

Geralt grunted approvingly. Jaskier rolled his eyes, hooking elbows with Yennefer as he guided her to the nearest pub.

—

“I do actually have a proposition,” Yennefer began after they had caught up, “I _did_ just hear about a possible job for a hefty sum.”

“Running short on coin?” Geralt questioned, a single eyebrow raised. Yennefer gazed at him, unamused.

“If you must know, I’d like to stock up on some Shimmering Dust, but I won’t say no to some money.”

“Shimmering Dust? Planning on fending off any Succubi?”

“If you must know, Witcher, I-“

“Wait, Shimmering Dust? That’s -“

“What’s this job then?” Jaskier asked inquisitively, ignoring Geralt and leaning forwards against the table they were seated at. Yennefer took another sip of her ale, purple eyes shining.

“A noonwraith. It’s been seen wandering the fields on the outskirts of the village. Apparently she’s been causing some havoc.” She said with a smile.

Jaskier tensed, leaning back into his seat and looking to Geralt. Those golden eyes were already on him. Geralt’s hand found Jaskier’s under the table, squeezing softly. A noonwraith wasn’t a nightwraith, it was a different species entirely. Either way, Geralt had beaten plenty of noon and nightwraiths before, nothing to concern himself over.

Yennefer’s seemingly all-seeing eyes flickered between the two of them with a frown.

“What is it?” She asked, voice softer than before. Geralt gave Jaskier one more reassuring glance before turning back to the sorceress.

“Where is this noonwraith, then?”

—

“Jaskier, you don’t have to come.” Yennefer told him as they headed to the field where this supposed noonwraith had been spotted.

“I know, but how could a bard such as myself miss an opportunity to see both a Witcher _and_ a sorceress fight a noonwraith?” Jaskier responded, there wasn’t as much humour in his voice as there usually was. Yennefer furrowed her brows but didn’t pry, thankfully. They had decided to go under the cover of nightfall, hoping that the noonwraith would appear at a time when it was at its weakest, not able to draw strength from the sun. Their blades were also coated in spectre oil to weaken the wraith. It all should have filled Jaskier with relief.

The darkness felt suffocating as they ventured out of the town and into the fields beyond. The moonlight felt glaring, the tall grass rough against his skin and the silk of his clothes. It all felt _wrong_ , like they shouldn’t be here. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder, his unease getting the better of him. The field was empty, no wraiths or spectres in sight.

The cool night wind made the grass shift and the bard shiver.

He saw no animals scuttering.

He heard no insects buzzing.

The wind flew past him again.

There was something in the air.

A charge, a tension, a -

“Jaskier! Duck!”

The bard dropped to the ground as he saw the Witcher’s silver curve through the air. He heard it hit something, that something letting out a jolting screech.

“Fuck, _nightwraiths.”_ Came the sorceress’ voice. Jaskier’s blood ran cold.

Suddenly he was being pulled up by his shirt, being pushed away, being told to run, _run_ , _stay away._ And, fuck, he ran, stumbling over his jittery legs, the grass pushing against him.

When he had gotten far enough, he fell to the ground again, hoping that the sorceress and Witcher both had already taken care of the _nightwraith_. A _nightwraith,_ at _night,_ with the moon at its _highest_.

_Fuck_.

Jaskier scrambled to turn around, the breath being punched out of him as he watched Geralt and Yennefer struggle against _three_ nightwraiths, at night, with the moon at its _godsdamned_ highest. Jaskier felt scorching heat tear at his chest, knowing that he was _useless_ in a fight, knowing he’d be a liability and having to _sit there_ , sit there and _watch_.

The wraiths were gaunt spectres, their shredded robes and wiry hair floating around them even in the stillest of air. Unnatural grey skin stretched too thin over inhumanly long arms that gave way to hands, to fingers that sharpened into points, into _talons._

Geralt already had a long scratch across his chest, his armour practically _ripped open_. Jaskier, thankfully, couldn’t see any blood. His hands lay clenched and stiff on his knees, knuckles bleached white, as all he could do was watch Yennefer and Geralt desperately try to freeze the three nightwraiths so their silver could harm them.

Gods, they were beautiful, hair twirling around them as the moon lit their stage, their bodies twisting to meet the monster’s blows. They were sapphire and quicksilver, their blood _danced_ with their colours.

And then there were more creatures, one turned into four, one created _three_ more _nightwraiths_. Jaskier watched Yennefer and Geralt’s movements slowly turn sluggish, their energy being pulled from them as they tried to destroy the copies.

“Yen!” Came Geralt’s strangled cry as the sorceress fell onto the floor, panting. The Witcher flung out the symbol for Yrden, swiping across the wraiths, killing two of the duplicates. Jaskier’s focus was on the struggling witch, urging her to get up, hoping that in some way she could draw _his_ strength, _take_ it from him. His attention was on Yennefer and he missed that in defending her, Geralt had left his back open.

Just as the sorceress raised herself once more, the Witcher stumbled forward from the nightwraith’s strike behind him. Jaskier lurched forward, hands grasping at the cold earth beneath him, seeping into his skin as he _ached_ to run to Geralt, only stopping himself with the knowledge that he’d do more harm than good. The Witcher’s movements remained swift even through the evident pain he was enduring as he twirled around to swipe at the spectre. His sword missed, going through empty air instead, the monster appearing behind him again, gnarled arm swinging through the air.

“Geralt!” Jaskier tried warning. Too late, too late. The Witcher fell to the ground on his hands and knees, keeling in pain, his blade scattering away from him, getting lost in the sea of grass. Yennefer was too far away, was blocked by another wraith. _Shit_.

He was running before he could stop himself, running towards his Witcher who _still hadn’t gotten up_.

“Geralt!” He cried. _Get up, get up, get up_. Geralt’s head rose slightly, white hair hanging limply over his face as his eyes widened at the sight of Jaskier running towards him.

“Yennefer!” He yelled to the sorceress who followed his line of sight to the bard. She flung her arm out, her other hand wielding the blade, striking the nightwraith before her. Suddenly Jaskier hit something, falling back into the grass. He looked up - nothing. There was nothing there. He stretched his arm out, feeling a hard wall in front of him where there should have just been air.

His eyes found Geralt again, kneeling in the grass, _bleeding_ , as the nightwraiths circled him. Jaskier jumped up, pounding on the invisible barrier in front of him. Pain sang through his bones as his arms connected with the wall of magic. _He had to move, had to help._ Fear filled him, manifesting into tears that spilled out in waves over his cheeks, making the world around him blurry, Yennefer, Geralt, the wraiths, the grass, the buttercups - _the buttercups._

Geralt was on the ground, exposed, vulnerable, surrounded by weeds and _buttercups_ , the moon lit his silver hair and then his amber eyes as he looked up, up at the nightwraith, the nightwraith whose taloned hand was arcing, arcing over the Witcher, arcing until -

Jaskier heard himself cry Geralt’s name wretchedly, desperately, saw the world disappear, turning white, turning into searing whiteness and all he could think was _Geralt._

_—_

Geralt was blinded, his hand coming up to shield his eyes, catching briefly the nightwraiths around them dissolving into the air like ink.

“Why didn’t you do that before?” He asked Yennefer, voice rasping slightly. His hand was still in front of his eyes, letting them adjust again to the darkness around him.

“Wasn’t me.” Came Yennefer’s confused response.

Geralt wasn’t listening anyway, instead his eyes roamed in search for Jaskier, finally landing on a limp body were Jaskier had been. A still, _lifeless_ body.

_I plan on dying long before you do, Witcher._

Geralt was suddenly drowning, unable to hear the bard’s heartbeat over the sound of roaring in his ears. Before he knew it he was rushing to fall by Jaskier’s side, wounds forgotten and breathing coming in sharp. Jaskier’s eyes were closed, his face calm and pale.

“ _Jaskier.”_ The bard’s name fell like a plea from the Witcher’s lips as his bloodstained hand found Jaskier’s throat, searching for a pulse. It fluttered weakly under his fingertips and he let out a choked breath. “Yennefer!” He called out to the sorceress who was already by his side, hands hovering over the bard silently. “Yennefer, _what is going on?_ Why is he - what’s wrong w - _“_

“Geralt, if you want me to help him you need to shut up.” She snapped. Geralt growled at her but it came out weak. His hands were shaking as he sat powerlessly, watching his bard lay so impossibly still.

_I plan on dying long before you do, Witcher._

He wasn’t dying, he wasn’t, he _couldn’t_. If he did, Geralt would find him and drag him back himself. He’d crawl into the underworld itself, would tear down the sky, would _kill himself_ to find Jaskier again.

He paused and closed his eyes, trying to calm the rushing in his ears, trying to focus on the bard’s heartbeat. It was slow, too slow. He heard Yennefer gasp and his eyes flew open.

“ _What_? _”_ He growled, his chest twisting and tearing itself apart.

“There’s something - it’s…” She trailed off, grimacing in effort.

_What? What is there?_ He wanted to yell, to scream, to do anything but sit there and watch Jaskier, his bard, his bluebird, the love of his _goddamn life_ lay lifelessly, silently. Gods, what he wouldn’t give to hear that voice again.

The sorceress removed her hands and leaned away from Jaskier’s body, freeing up space for Geralt’s arm to wind itself under the bard’s shoulder, lifting him slightly. He felt for his pulse again, breathing a sigh of relief at its steady pace. He still wasn’t waking up though, eyes still closed, dark eyelashes fanning over his pale cheeks. Geralt cupped Jaskier’s cheek, thumb brushing over the arch of his cheekbone. The blood on his hand smeared across Jaskier’s skin and Geralt had to remind himself that it was his own.

“Jaskier?” He croaked tentatively, hoping, wishing, praying that those eyes would flutter open and he’d be faced with the cornflower blue he so loved. Nothing. “Yennefer, _he’s not waking up_.” He said, eyes still on Jaskier’s face.

_I plan on dying long before you do, Witcher._

His pulse was even, his chest was rising, his skin, though pale, was warm with life. Yet Geralt’s lungs still ached.

“ _Yen,”_ he said again, turning to the sorceress who was gazing at her own hands, brows furrowed. “ _Yen_ , do something.”

“I’ve done all I can for now.” She responded, violet eyes rising to meet his worried ones. “He’ll be fine, Geralt.” Her voice was soft as she watched the Witcher cradle his bard. He moved his hand to the back of the bard’s head, supporting it as he lifted it closer to him. The Witcher buried his nose in Jaskier’s soft, chestnut hair that still smelled like the walnut and cedar of his soap and strangely of something else, something _electric_. “You’re bleeding, you need to dress your wounds.” Yennefer said, her voice laced with the pain of her own injuries.

“What _happened_?” Geralt asked, more to himself than the sorceress, face still buried in the bard’s hair, “He was nowhere near the fight, I don’t smell blood, so _what happened_?”

“Magic.” Yennefer replied. Geralt’s head whipped around.

“ _What?”_

_—_

_Geralt is on the ground, exposed, vulnerable, surrounded by weeds and buttercups, the moon lights his silver hair and then his amber eyes as he looks up, up at the nightwraith, the nightwraith whose taloned hand is arcing, arcing over the Witcher, arcing until -_

“Geralt!” Jaskier cried, sitting up quickly and immediately yelping. The Witcher beside him rocked forward, catching the bard by the shoulders, helping him lean back against the pillows on the bed.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice was raspy and quiet, his eyes tender as he watched the bard scan his surroundings before landing back on the Witcher.

“ _Geralt_ , are you ok? Are you hurt?” Jaskier demanded, grasping tightly onto Geralt’s wrist, blue eyes round with worry. Geralt’s chest squeezed tightly, a small smile pulling at his lips.

“I’m fine.” He responded, bringing Jaskier’s hand to rest over his slow heartbeat. Jaskier sighed, his fingers tightening around the fabric of Geralt’s shirt.

“What happened?” The bard asked. The Witcher’s hand slipped down Jaskier’s arm to rest on his elbow.

“Magic.” Geralt responded, looking for the bard’s reaction.

“What do you mean?”

So he didn’t know. Of course he didn’t know. Geralt didn’t doubt that Jaskier would have told him at some point if he had known. If not simply through accidentally blurting it out then because he trusted the Witcher. Geralt knew that. He knew that Jaskier trusted him and had faith in him, believed him to be truly _good._ It made Geralt’s heart fall over itself in a way that he still hadn’t quite gotten used to.

“Jaskier, you’re _magic.”_

A pause.

A nervous laugh.

“Stop fucking with me, Geralt.”

But he knows that he wouldn’t, not about this, not in this moment.

His nervous smile slipped from his face.

“I’m not fucking with you, buttercup, you have magic.” Geralt said softly, sharp eyes watching for the bard’s reaction yet again. Jaskier took a moment before sighing weakly and screwing his eyes shut, leaning his head back against the wall. Geralt’s hand remained gently placed on Jaskier’s elbow as he readied himself for tears or screaming or…really anything other than the bard saying an angry:

“Fuck me over with a buttermilk biscuit, Geralt, _what the fuck_?”

The Witcher blinked as Jaskier’s eyes opened again, his hand removing itself from Geralt’s shirt to flail dramatically as he went on.

“How many fucking years of my life have I gone by _not knowing I have magic?_ ” Those blue eyes snapped to the Witcher. “ _Geralt_ ” He whined, “I could have been doing _magic._ I assume that’s how we got out of that dilemma with the wraiths because honestly neither of you were doing great. Does that mean that I’m super powerful now? What can I do, Geralt? Can I -“

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt said, cutting him off, “do you actually want to know what happened?” Jaskier’s expression turned apprehensive as he nodded lightly. “You saved me and Yen back there…with your magic but…” He trailed off and looked away from the bard.

“But what?” Jaskier urged. Pained amber eyes turned to his.

“You almost _died_ , Jaskier.”

The bard sucked in a breath. “Oh.”

“You almost _died_ and I didn’t know _why_ , I didn’t know what had happened to you, I didn’t even know you were dying, and your heartbeat was dangerously slow and Yennefer helped but _-_ gods, _Jaskier_ \- you’ve been asleep for _three fucking days.”_

A pause.

“Oh.” Silence reigned for a moment. “ _Oh…_ oh, _Geralt_.” Jaskier’s callused fingertips found Geralt’s face as he brushed his cheek, the Witcher leaning into the warm hand with a hum. Geralt own hand slipped up Jaskier’s arm, resting on his wrist, his fingers pressed over his pulse point. He closed his eyes and listened to the steady rhythm.

_I plan on dying long before you do, Witcher._

He hadn’t even known that Jaskier _was_ dying until they made it back to the village where Jaskier had been tended to by a healer. Yennefer had pulled him aside and told him that what Jaskier had done had drained him to the point where his body had begun to _fail_ him. Geralt had felt like he was drowning again, a crushing pain pressing against his lungs, and had to be reminded by the sorceress that “ _he is alive, Geralt, he’s fine now, he just needs rest”_ but Geralt hadn’t heard any of it over the vision of Jaskier’s pale body lying on the field surrounded by buttercups.

The Witcher pressed a soft kiss to the inside of the bard’s wrist. A pained “ _Geralt”_ coming from Jaskier’s lips. “Come here.” He said, shifting on the bed so the Witcher could slip under the covers and pull the bard close, strong arms wrapping around his slender waist.

Geralt nosed over the crown of Jaskier’s forehead, breathing in the smell of cedar and walnut, this time unaccompanied by that something electric that had left a tightness in Geralt’s chest before. He felt that tightness unravel now as he held the bard close, hearing his heartbeat, feeling his breath fan against his collarbone, feeling the life thrum in his body.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier said, raising his head so he could look into Geralt’s amber eyes. His hands wound around Geralt’s neck so he could angle his head down and meet his lips in a gentle kiss. The desperate ones would come later, those that reassured them that, _yes_ , they were alive and, _yes_ , they were willing to prove it with tongues and teeth and torn clothes and biting moans. But they needed the gentle ones first, the slow ones, the ones that let their chests unfurl and grow warm with affection because, _yes_ , they were alive and, _yes_ , they loved each other _so fucking much_.

Geralt’s hand moved to press against Jaskier’s chest once they broke apart, feeling for that steady heartbeat. The bard gave him a soft smile as they pressed their foreheads together, absolutely lost in each other’s warmth.

That was until Yennefer decided to interrupt them with an amused “so you’re alive.” Jaskier groaned and shooed her away noncommittally as he buried his face in Geralt’s chest. “Good to see you too, bard.” She said, smiling and crossing her arms.

“So,” Came Jaskier’s response, murmured against Geralt’s chest, “magic.”

“Magic.” The sorceress confirmed. “Not much of it, that’s why your body’s aching, it’s overexertion. But there’s enough of it to keep you young apparently.”

“Excuse you, not much of it?” The bard began, moving away from his Witcher’s warmth to glare at the violet-eyed witch, “I seem to recall me killing _multiple_ nightwraiths and saving _your_ ass.”

“ _I_ seem to recall you almost _dying_ because of it.”

“Semantics.”

“ _Semantics?”_

Geralt groaned as their bickering continued, though he couldn’t help but smile.

—

“ _Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait”_ Came Jaskier’s enraged response in the middle of their argument which had somehow spiralled into something else. “Geralt has wounds on his back? Right now? In this current moment?”

Oh shit.

“Multiple.” Yennefer added smugly. Geralt growled and flipped her off.

“Geralt, honey?” Jaskier asked in that saccharine sweet way he did when Geralt knew he was about to blow his top. He paused for a second. “ _Why the fuck are you lying on your back in bed with me if you have multiple fucking injuries on your back, you mother of dumbasses, oh my -“_

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @imweakmylove on the tumbs  
> please comment what you thought


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